The Dark Mark Affair
by Argonaut57
Summary: Napoleon Solo, Illya Kuryakin, James Bond and Simon Templar are all drawn into dirty doings in Monte Carlo. A gang called the Dark Mark, led by one Tom Riddle, is causing trouble. Things could get a little rowdy. Time for Professor Minerva McGonagall to take charge! (WARNING: Contains scenes of full-frontal smoking).
1. Episode 1

**The Dark Mark Affair**

Episode One: Bust-up in Monte Carlo

Simon Templar was in his element. The casino was exclusive, elegant, expensive and high stakes only. The kind of place frequented by the very rich and the very dishonest -a land flowing with ungodliness and boodle!

Simon scanned the crowd, effortlessly noting the types. The honest rich mixing with the criminal rich and pretending not to know who was who. Relaxed, happy, enjoying themselves. Against them, the professional gamblers, no different in dress, perhaps, but impassive, watchful, here to make a living.

But then there were the others. The ones like himself, here for reasons of their own. Like the man playing baccarat at the top table, now. A big man, as tall as Simon and well built, dressed in faultless evening attire. The face was strong-boned, ruggedly handsome and the thick dark hair fell across the forehead in a black comma. But there was more than a hint of cruelty in the set of the mouth, and the grey eyes were cold. Simon noted that while the man clearly had excellent peripheral vision, when something drew his attention, he didn't slide his eyes, as most people did, but turned his whole head, as a cat does. _A professional assassin_. Simon decided. Either here to spend his pay, or to assess his next target.

Two other men had drawn Simons' eye also. They were at the roulette table, where one of them had established himself as the soul of the party. Another tall, darkly handsome man, an American by the sound of him. He played a risky game, shoving huge piles of chips onto apparently random numbers and greeting winnings or loss with the same suave humour and charm. He drank steadily, without apparently being affected, and had drawn an admiring crowd.

His companion – they had come in together and were clearly friends – was an absolute contrast. Shorter, slim and wiry with the grace of a dancer or karate expert, the other man was blond, with a thin, impassive face and piercing blue eyes. He watched the table, watched the wheel, watched the croupiers. He placed small bets, but with a mathematical precision, and seemed to be winning more than his companion. Oddly, his accent was more English than American, but certain intonations betrayed his origins as somewhere in Eastern Europe. He responded to his friends' banter with a dry wit. _Crooks or cops_. Simon judged. The dark one distracting customers and staff while the blond one assessed the honesty or otherwise of the table.

Of course, Simon would not have been Simon if he had failed to take note of the ladies. There were as many women there as men, but fewer actually gambling. Some stayed close to their men, decoration or distraction. Others waited in the wings, sipping cocktails -the concubines who would serve their purpose later. Still others circulated the crowd, and these were the predators, looking to find a winner, flushed with success and drink, from whom they could extract, subtly or otherwise, a pound or two of flesh.

Then there was the other one. The one who didn't seem to fit anywhere. Simon hadn't noticed her at first. Unlike most of the women here, she had not arrayed herself for male viewing pleasure. But once seen, she made a striking figure. Taller than most women, and slender, she carried herself with a poise and dignity that was almost intimidating. She was certainly attractive, though her features were too strong to be called pretty, even framed by the wealth of dark hair that cascaded down her back. The elegant simplicity of her gown, and the discreet but expensive jewellery spoke to a woman of both means and taste. That alone had drawn the attention of some of the men, but something about her direct gaze, and the acidly witty way she responded to flirtation, had discouraged their attentions.

She had played a little blackjack, winning just enough to turn a profit and losing just enough to seem honest. But Simon was a gambler himself, among his many talents, and could make a living at the tables if he needed to. He knew she was doing something – he just couldn't figure out what, and it piqued his interest.

But he had bigger fish to fry. A Corsican gangster was coming here tonight. A man who made his living by preying on the misery of poor working people. Simon had plans to give the man a taste of his own medicine, to relieve him of several million francs and to line his own pockets in doing so. They called him the 'modern Robin Hood', but Simon Templar was not the man to give away his hard-won, or even ill-gotten, gains to the Great Unwashed. Not all of them, anyway. Simon was a thief and a con man, but he only stole from those who had already stolen from others.

But, as the poet has it, "The best -laid plans o' mice and men gang aft agley." In this case, everyone's plans were interrupted by a violent explosion which blew the door off its' hinges and left the two evening-suited guards dead and bloody. A dozen black-clad, masked figures erupted into the room. Two of them proceeded to fire bursts of sub-machine gun fire into the ceiling. The others, armed with what appeared to be pickaxe handles, set about wrecking the place.

There was immediate panic among the customers, who fled for the emergency exits. These were open and unguarded, Simon noted, also realising that the attackers were paying little or no attention to the people, merely threatening them and scaring them, unless they showed fight. There was little enough of that, at first. The professional bodyguards – and there were several present -were more concerned with getting their charges out of harms' way than anything else.

But then those who were paid to guard the place itself joined the fray. Ten or so big, burly men armed with police batons. At that point, things became serious, and vicious. The invaders responded by attacking anyone they could reach. Simon ducked as a pickaxe handle whistled over his head, and responded with an uppercut that sent his assailant down across the blackjack table.

He shrugged. This wasn't necessarily his fight, but Francois, who owned the casino, was a friend, and Simon owed him that much. He waded in, trying not to enjoy himself too much.

Then the inevitable happened. Seeing his comrades suffering a setback, one of the gunmen made to turn his weapon onto the melee. There were still customers in the room – only a few – but the weapon was an indiscriminate one and Simon would not tolerate the killing of bystanders. He made to draw his gun, but was beaten to it. There was a sharp report, and the machine-gunner went down, shot precisely between the eyes.

Simon turned to see the big man who had been playing baccarat, still standing by the raised card table, lowering a small, neat pistol; a Walther PPK if he was any judge. The mans' face was impassive as he scanned the crowd, but when his eye caught Simons', there was a flicker of recognition. Simon spun back to check on the other gunman, just as another gunshot sounded.

This one came from the dark-haired American at the roulette table, and while it was less surgically precise than the card-players', it was just as effective, putting down the second gunner. Simon noted that the blond man was in the process of scientifically disposing of a club-wielding assailant.

His highly-developed sixth sense warned him, so he was already moving as a womans' voice called : "Look out!"

Another pickaxe handle swung down where he had just been. But then his feet were tangled in a fallen chair and he went down, rolling over to see the masked thug raising his weapon for another blow. A jet of red light struck the man in the side and he collapsed like a marionette with cut strings.

Simon got to his feet and found himself face to face with the woman he had noticed earlier. She was holding a thin stick in her right hand as if it were a weapon. She looked him up and down, snapped "Pay attention!" in the unmistakable tones of a schoolmistress, then turned away and shot another streak of red light from the stick, putting a second masked thug down.

Simon Templar had not survived as long as he had in his dangerous world by being the kind of man who allowed amazement to paralyse him. There would be time for explanations later. He got back into the fight.

Fortunately – or not, depending on ones' tastes -there was little left to do. The attackers were demoralised by the death of two of their number, while the bouncers were encouraged by the unexpected reinforcements. Within a few moments, those who could, fled, leaving the defenders bruised but triumphant among the wreckage of the once elegant room. A man made his way over to Simon at once.

Francois Dauberge had gained pounds and lost hair since his Resistance days, but his eyes still burned fiercely out of a face which, if a little jowlier, was still hard and uncompromising. The hearty French embrace with which he greeted Simon was as powerful as ever.

"Simon, _mon vieux_, I had not known you were 'ere!" He said. "I am so sorry zat your evening 'as been spoiled!"

"On the contrary," Simon told him. "the entertainment proved excellent, if rather unexpected."

Francois laughed. "Ah, zat is ze Simon I remember. But 'oo are your allies?"

"On that, I'm as much in the dark as you are, Francois." Simon admitted.

The others had gravitated toward them, and now the man from the baccarat table nodded to the two from the roulette game in the manner of a professional greeting others.

"Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin." He noted in a deep, commanding voice. "UNCLEs' finest. What are you doing here?"

The darker man, identified as Solo, replied. "I might ask you the same, Agent 007."

"Bond." 007 responded. "James Bond. Working, of course, as you are. I wonder if we're working on the same thing?"

"Whether or not we are," observed Kuryakin, "I have to wonder of it was mere coincidence that brought us all here on the same night as the notorious Simon Templar?"

Bond looked squarely at Simon for the first time. "I knew I'd seen your face somewhere." He remarked. "We have a file on you, a very large one."

"I'm flattered." Simon replied.

"Don't be." Bond told him. "Simon Templar, alias The Saint. Thief, confidence trickster, gambler, mercenary and suspected of several murders. You get away with it because your victims are usually bigger crooks than you are, because of your war record and because you have on several occasions been of assistance to both the British and American governments."

"And because we've never quite managed to catch you." Solo added. "So now we have only the question of your lady friend."

"Our acquaintance is very recent..."Simon began, but the woman cut across him.

"I am not Mr Templars' lady friend." She said in a precise Scots voice. "I am a mere holidaymaker here in Monte Carlo. My name is Professor Minerva McGonagall and I lecture in Physics at..."

"No, you don't." Bond said flatly. "You're the senior teacher of Transfiguration at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

She looked sharply at him, then nodded. "Of course. It would be naïve of me to assume that a senior operative of the muggle Secret Service would not be at least aware of my world and its more important institutions. I assume that UNCLE also keeps a watching brief on wizards?" Kuryakin and Solo nodded. "Which only leaves the question of Mr Templar here..."

"And I've seen much odder things than magic." Simon allowed. "I don't give away secrets, Professor. My record shows that."

"I will accept that, for now." She said. "However, I must admit to a passing curiosity as to the meaning of tonights' events. Even I know that such things are far from common, even among muggles!"

Francois shook his head. "Ah, _mademoiselle Professeur_, " He said grimly. "I sink ze less you know of _Monsieur_ Riddle and 'is Dark Mark gang, ze safer you weel be and ze better you weel sleep."

Minerva McGonagalls' face turned grim, and her voice was authoritative as she replied. "On the contrary, _monsieur_, I think I need to know everything!"

Dauberge clearly exercised the same discipline over his casino staff as he had over his Resistance cell, and commanded the same loyalty. It took only a few crisp orders for him to set the staff about clearing up. Then he led the others to his private office, which was large and well-appointed, and seated them comfortably. They spoke French, a language in which they were all comfortably fluent.

"Would any of you care for a drink?" He asked, moving over to the well-stocked bar. "Mademoiselle?"

"Do you happen to have a good single-malt Scotch whisky?" Minerva asked.

"I have the Laphroaig." Dauberge told her, pouring a generous measure at her nod of approval. "Ice, water or soda?"

"Good heavens, man, certainly not!" Minerva told him indignantly. "I will take it unpolluted, if you please!"

"I'll have the same." Simon added.

"Vodka martini, ice and lemon, shaken, not stirred." Bond requested.

"Bourbon on the rocks." Solo asked.

Kuryakin had been studying the array of bottles, and now asked. "Could I have a glass of the Perrier water, with a dash of lime, please?"

"Illya seldom drinks." Solo told them all. "But he makes up for it by eating enough for three people."

"Unlike others," Kuryakin pointed out, "I have a high energy output."

Dauberge, having passed the drinks around, sat down with a glass of his favourite Armagnac and shook his head.

"I feared it might come to this." He said without preamble. "No serious harm has been done. What was broken is easily replaced, and I am a wealthy man, wealthy enough not to worry about being closed for a night or two."

Only Simon knew that the source of that wealth was a hoard of Nazi gold he and Dauberge had 'liberated' during the War.

"So what," Simon asked, "is going on, Francois? Why didn't you contact me before?"

Dauberge shrugged. "It was not a problem at first, at least so I thought. Like most casinos we have been approached by racketeers in the past. I needed no loans to start this place, and most of my staff are the sons and daughters of people who served with me in the War, so they have no need of these unions. As to the protection rackets, both the Corsicans and the Sicilians have attempted this. I sent their men back, a little bruised, a little bloody, with the message that this service was not needed."

He gave a short laugh. "I am not a man easily intimidated. One who has defied and killed officers of the Gestapo – men from whom these _tough guys_," he used the English phrase, "would flee like scared children – knows how to deal with petty bullies. I let it be known that my house is a place where no gang rivalries are permitted. A place safe and neutral, where anyone might come for their pleasure. So I have thrived.

"Then some six moths ago, there began to be rumours of a new gang. They called themselves the Dark Mark, and within a very short time they have assumed supremacy in many places. They terrify and drive out the Sicilians and the Corsicans, even the Chinese!

"I thought little of it -I had perhaps been complacent – until I received this!"

He went over to his desk and opened a drawer, taking out what appeared to be a scroll. "it was on my desk one morning, and none of my staff can say how it came there."

He handed it to Kuryakin, who examined it and passed it on. When it came to Minerva, she noted that it was parchment, rather than paper, thick and high quality. The message was written in a firm, flowing script and read:

_Lord Voldemort requires your tribute. One quarter of your earnings, monthly. Subjection and humility will be rewarded by continued life, defiance punished by inevitable death. Three days are given._

There was no signature underneath, just an elaborate drawing of a human skull with a snake emerging from its mouth.

"Rather over-dramatic." Simon remarked. "But you said the Dark Mark was run by a man called Riddle?"

Dauberge shrugged. "I am not without my sources of information. Naturally, I set out to learn what I could of these people. Their leaders' name is indeed Tom Riddle, but he calls himself Lord Voldemort and claims to be an English aristocrat of that title. But Voldemort is not an English title, and though there was once a family armigerous named Riddle, they are extinct.

"But this Riddle, he is a dangerous man. His henchmen fear him like death itself. It is said that he has ways to find out the deepest secrets. That no door can be locked against him. Even that he, by the simple force of his will, caused the bodyguard of a Mafia chief to kill his own boss."

Dauberge shrugged again. "I ignored the note, and the man himself came here two nights ago and asked to speak with me. He was here in this office. A tall, thin man in black. He wore tinted glasses, and his face was like a mask. He did not speak so much as whisper, or hiss."

Dauberge rubbed his face, his eyes were haunted now. "He talked, for an hour or more, as if trying to persuade me. All the time I...I felt his will, battering against mine. I have not felt so threatened since I faced von Maier -you recall him, Simon? I almost lost myself, it took all my strength to say no the first time, but after that it became easier. Finally, he left, saying only that there would be consequences. We have seen the first of those consequences tonight, I think."

He rubbed his face again, then finished his brandy as a gulp. "You will wish, I think, to speak privately. I must see to my people. My house is your house."

He left. There was a moments' silence, then Bond said to Solo; "So, why are you two here?"

Solo grinned easily. "Our job." He said. "UNCLEs' brief covers organised crime, especially when it's international. We got rumours of a new outfit, centred here but spreading into Europe and the US, so we came to see what we could find out. Seems we've found out more than we expected."

Kuryakin added; "It wouldn't be the first time THRUSH has used organised crime as a front for their operations, but this feels different. What about you, Mr Bond? Her Majestys' Secret Service does not send out double-O agents on simple errands."

Bond nodded. "It seems that this group is active in more than one sphere. Things have gone missing. Sensitive documents, weapon designs, strategic plans. They vanish, no-one knows quite how, then turn up on the open market. It's happening to us, the Americans, the Russians and the Chinese, indiscriminately. We have a gentlemens' agreement whereby we allow the original owner to buy the material back, but that can't continue too long, so I've been sent to put a stop to it.

"We did think it might be SPECTRE, but it isn't their style. They steal to order, and are paid by their clients.

"What about you, Mr Templar? If I didn't know better, I'd suspect you of being behind some of this."

"You do know better." Simon told him. "I've never been a racketeer, or a gangster. An outlaw, perhaps, but by my own rules. When my path crosses that of the ungodly, I deal with them as they deserve, and if I come by a little well-earned boodle in the process, well, a man has to make a living.

"Francois is a friend of mine, certainly. But I only arrived here yesterday. I came here for a nights' entertainment, and would have taken the chance to talk to him later on, but my plans were disrupted.

"Having said that, I don't like people who threaten my friends, so this Riddle now has my attention. He won't find that comfortable, I think."

"Then I suggest we pool our resources." Kuryakin said. Getting nods all round, he went on. "The note interests me. It's on parchment, and if I'm any judge, was written with a quill pen. Who uses parchment and quills nowadays?"

"Wizards." Minerva put in. She had been sitting so quietly that they had somehow forgotten her. It occurred to Simon that this may have been what she wanted. Now, however, she was the centre of attention, something she seemed wholly unperturbed about. She sat forward and spoke as if to a class of unruly schoolboys.

"I do not doubt your competence in your various fields of endeavour, gentlemen, but you are facing here something, or rather someone, who is wholly outside your experience.

"All of you, apart from Mr Templar, here, are aware of the world of wizards which exists, mostly in secret, alongside your own muggle world. What you may not be fully aware of is that we too have our factions, our criminals and our political differences. Now I have a great deal to tell you, so please make yourselves comfortable."

Bond reached into his pocket and took out a gunmetal cigarette case, which he offered around. The unfiltered cigarettes had a distinctive mark of three gold bands near one end. "I have them specially made up by Morlands'." He said. Simon and Solo both accepted one, Kuryakin indicated that he didn't smoke. Minerva also declined, reaching into her evening bag and producing a silver case of her own, from which she took a Sobranie Black Russian.

"It is not a vice I indulge in frequently," she told them, "and I am rather childlike in that I only really like this brand."

She accepted a light from Bonds' oxidised Ronson before continuing.

"The name Tom Marvolo Riddle is one known to a select few British wizards." She said. "He was born in 1926 in an orphanage in London, his mother dying shortly after naming him. At the age of eleven he was admitted to Hogwarts -the British school for wizards and witches – having already demonstrated great magical potential. He was sorted into Slytherin House – a fact which will mean little or nothing to any of you, but which can be indicative of certain unpleasant character traits. It also demonstrated that at least one, if not both, of his unknown parents must have been a witch or wizard of Pureblood lineage.

"This is significant because there was and is a continuing, low-key political conflict in our world between those who wish to keep wizard bloodlines pure, forbidding marriage with muggles and refusing to admit muggle-borns into our world, and those who welcome the introduction of new blood. In the past, this dispute has occasionally become violent. As we speak, the debate is flaring up anew and factions are forming, factions with radical agendas.

"Riddle proved a brilliant student, but possessed an intense curiosity regarding the Dark Arts -the dangerous aspect of magic we teach students to guard against. He also had more than the usual Slytherin level of dislike for Half-blood and muggle-born students, and was known to despise muggles in general. He collected around himself a coterie of like-minded associates, though he had no real friends.

"He left school in 1945, and disappeared shortly thereafter. He reappeared in 1956, by which time he had adopted the alias 'Lord Voldemort', a partial anagram of his full name. He requested a teaching post at Hogwarts, but was refused. Since then, he has not been seen or heard of, except by rumours. Terrible rumours. Murder, extortion, kidnapping, every crime known to wizard or muggle. But still only rumours, until now."

"Interesting spook story." Solo said. "But why is this evil wizard heading up a gang of – what was that word – _muggle_ thugs? Why the theft, extortion and protection rackets?"

"Money." Simon said. "Politics are all very well, but to get a party, or a revolution, going, you need money. The Russians and Chinese fund communist groups all over the world. The CIA and MI6 do the same for anti-communist groups.

"If our friend Mr Riddle means to launch a campaign or a coup in this wizard world, he'll need money to do it."

"I had not considered that, Mr Templar." Minerva allowed. "Riddle might well have the help of several wealthy wizard families, but they cannot supply all his needs. Our wizarding system of finance is less complex than the muggle one. We have no Stock Exchange or currency markets. Most of our transactions are cash ones, and our coinage is still made from precious metals.

"Nevertheless, we do have a bank, Gringotts, which is owned and run not by wizards but by Goblins. Rather like your muggle Swiss banks, Gringotts are punctilious in their protection of clients' funds and confidentiality, but ask no questions as to how monies were obtained. They would happily exchange any amount of muggle money into our coinage, and store it in their vaults without once wondering – or even caring - where it came from.

"It is clear, gentlemen, that Riddle and his Dark Mark gang must be stopped. It is equally clear that you are unlikely to be able to achieve this without my help."


	2. Episode 2

**The Dark Mark Affair**

Episode Two: Friends in High and Low Places

_All my resolutions come to nothing again!_ Minerva thought to herself as she sipped _cafe au lait_ and munched on fresh croissants in her hotels' restaurant the following morning. After the business in Prague, with the Weeping Angels and the brilliant but erratic Doctor, she had decided that the life of a witch was quite strange enough, thank you very much. She had refused the Doctors' offer to travel with him and the feisty 21st Century woman Donna. Racketing around across time and space had been a seductive notion, but Minerva also saw it as an abrogation of responsibility. Her Muggle father, no matter how uncomfortable her magical status had made him, had never rejected her, and among the many things she had learned from him was the importance of taking on ones' responsibilities, however quotidian.

That said, there was undoubtedly a kink in her mind, or a flaw in her character, she decided. Something that sought out a change, a challenge. One the one hand, it had taken her out of a safe but dreary job at the Ministry to the somewhat more varied environment of Hogwarts. There, each new cohort of students presented their own challenges. Challenges that developed as the students themselves matured and changed. Never a lack of interest, there. But on the other hand, this quirk in her nature made it hard, if not impossible, for her to refuse the siren call of Adventure!

Take this holiday, for instance. For a witch or a wizard, the world was their oyster in many ways. Minerva could have spent her two weeks anywhere from Bridlington to Acapulco, and all points between. But she had chosen Monte Carlo, with its glamorous reputation, its casinos and parties and a free-and-easy atmosphere that even so-called 'Swinging' London could not match. Hardly the likely destination for a woman who, however young, was regarded by most who knew her as a strait-laced bluestocking!

Nor was it of any use to tell herself she had come away to reassess her feelings for the two men in her life. Dougal, her Muggle first love, had been placed out of reach by her own determination to avoid the marital difficulties faced (and admittedly overcome) by her own witch mother and Muggle father. But that decision had been of the head, not the heart, and did not in any way diminish her feelings for him. At the same time, her former boss and close friend, Elphinstone Urquart, had apparently developed deeper feelings for her than she had imagined, actually going to the lengths of proposing to her during his last visit. Her immediate but kind rejection had been a matter of heart, rather than head, but now she was wondering if it had been right. Elphinstone was a sweet man, who clearly adored her and of whom she was, she admitted, immensely fond.

_No,_ she told herself, _if you wanted to think, Min, you'd have gone somewhere quiet, You came here to find some excitement!_

Not that the excitement she had sought included gunplay and fisticuffs! The brawl in the casino was something she should have withdrawn from at once. Amongst the confusion, she could have Apparated away without anyone the wiser, or she could have fled with the other customers. But Minerva did not like bullies, and found it hard to step away from such behaviour - especially when others were at risk. Then when the four other men had intervened, she had remained out of fascination.

A respected wizard duellist herself, she nonetheless had little knowledge of how Muggles fought. Most wizards resorted to their wands at once -only the ubiquitous Weasley family showed a preference for physical combat, young Arthur was very quick with his fists! This, however, was something else -the variety of styles and moves the four Muggle men used impressed and excited Minerva more than she liked to admit. When the serious shooting started, she had about decided to make herself scarce, only to see Simon in trouble. She had reacted, once again, on instinct and had found herself embroiled in what promised to be a very serious business indeed!

But now that she was well and truly involved, her sense of responsibility dictated that she see the matter through. As long as Riddle was operating within the Muggle underworld, the Aurors could do little or nothing without absolute proof that magic was being used. Minerva intended to get that proof, if she could.

The first order of business then, was to contact the magical authorities. Not in any official way, she had no standing. Then again, why should that stop her? She glanced at her watch and signalled the waiter to pay for her breakfast, then headed out into the morning sunshine.

The Principality of Monaco, though surrounded on three sides by France and on the fourth by the Mediterranean, remained an independent sovereign country under Prince Rainier III, who had brought his tiny country to international prominence by the simple step of marrying the American film star Grace Kelly. Monaco mostly ran its own affairs, but as a protectorate of its larger neighbour, ceded several functions to France. One of these was the oversight of magical matters. Monaco had no Ministry of Magic, Monegasque witches and wizards were under the jurisdiction of the Bureau des Sorcieres.

Within France proper, that would have meant a trip to Paris, and a probably futile attempt to bypass the labyrinthine bureaucracy of the Rue de Lotte. It would also have meant dealing with Parisians, a breed of people who lived in one of the most beautiful cities in the world and were constantly, arrogantly aware of that fact!

However, the Bureau des Sorcieres had so far acknowledged the independence of Monaco as to establish a satellite office here in Monte Carlo. With little to do, the office was used as a final, pre-retirement posting for mid-ranking employees, or as a glory-hole for those whose faces didn't fit in Paris.

Henri Clerval was one of the latter. A Quidditch player of international standard, his career had been cut short by an injury not even magical healing could properly overcome. His fame, reputation and influential relatives had secured him a job in the Bureau, but his Gascon bluntness and a penchant for back-talking senior colleagues had led to his transfer here.

_Bien_, he had thought, _I will make the best of it!_ The work was undemanding and the Chief lenient, the weather was good and the women were pretty. Henri had family money, and the Bureau des Sorcieres was not noted for underpaying staff, so he had the resources and leisure to pursue his interests. He was involved in a local broom-making concern and undertook private training of young wizards and witches who wished to improve their Quidditch skills. He had a brace of fine young sons, an easy-going and uncomplicated relationship with his wife, and a passionate but low-maintenance mistress. Life was good. To see an old friend and former Quidditch opponent again merely improved the day!

He recognised her at once, though it had been years since they had seen each other. Unlike most men, Henri had always thought Minerva striking rather than formidable, and that had not changed. Her tall, slender form and determined stride were unmistakable, even when she was clad in a burgundy Chanel trouser-suit, as was the long fall of raven hair. _At least, _he thought,_ she shows better sense in Muggle clothes than many British wizards!_ Some of the sartorial disasters committed by British wizards abroad had required prompt action from the Bureau. The trouser-suit, though still not common in provincial areas, was a perfectly respectable day-wear choice in Monte Carlo, though not common for witches. He rose to greet her, taking her outstretched hands and kissing her on both cheeks.

"Minerva! _Bienvenue a Monaco_!" He said.

"_Salut_, Henri," she replied, "it is good to see you, _mon vieux_."

"You are looking stunning!" He told her. "You wear the trousers with great style."

"It's not the first time I've had occasion to wear them." She admitted. "But that's a tale for another time. How goes it with you, Henri?"

He shrugged as they sat down and he signalled the waiter. "Well enough. I am not, as you might say, a career man. But I make myself useful and they pay me, so I have no complaints."

"And how is Severine? And the boys?" She went on.

He grinned. "Robert and Francois are filling the house nowadays. We make the most of it, they will be going to Beauxbatons soon enough. Severine is well, and sends her greetings. She is now a Senior Healer. Our families are content with the marriage and the grandchildren, Severine has Antoine, I have Sophie, it is an arrangement most amicable.

"Coffee and calvados, Minerva?"

"Coffee by all means, but it is a little early in the day for calvados, I think." She replied.

"Ah! _Vous Ecossais!_" He threw up his hands in mock despair. "You have absorbed the dull habits of your English neighbours!"

"Oh, we were already quite dour enough without them." She told him. "A diet of porridge and haggis will achieve that with no need for outside influence."

He laughed, and they chatted generally for a while, until Henri gave Minerva a shrewd glance.

"Now, Minerva, I think we must come to the point, you and I. All this, we could have spoken of over dinner at my home, and Severine is most anxious that you should join us before your holiday is over. So, why this meeting, so public, yet so discreet, at so uncivilised an hour? Why should a teacher from Scotland meet a Bureau official from France so privately in Monaco?"

Relieved that Henri remained as sharp as ever, Minerva plunged straight in. "Henri, I have reason to believe that there is a wizard in Monaco who is practising magic – Dark magic – on muggles. Have you heard anything?"

Henri frowned. "This I have not heard of, but if it is true, it is serious. You must understand, Minerva, Monte Carlo is a playground for wealthy muggles, not so much for our people. But there are some who haunt the casinos -the large ones – in the hope of making money. Some of them use their skills on the tables themselves – a dangerous game, because always there are some croupiers who are also witches or wizards, set there by us for this very reason. Others exercise their powers on the muggle gamblers. Those who gamble are often superstitious, and a small profit might be made in the selling of charmed artefacts or potions -the profit grows if these are shown to work. We must differentiate between the muggle charlatan selling trinkets and the wizard selling enchanted items or small doses of dilute _felix felicis_ potion.

"This is where most of our effort goes, Minerva. We are a small office, and we concentrate our efforts where the greatest risk is seen."

"Quite, Henri, I understand." Minerva replied. "But I have reason to believe that a wizard is operating among the muggle criminal fraternity, not only of Monaco, but across into France and perhaps elsewhere."

"_Mon Dieu!_" Henri spat. "Again? Will they not learn? To interfere in muggle affairs is to court disaster! Did the War not teach them that? So many wizards lost because they would not keep out of the matter. Muggles are far more intelligent, far more dangerous, than many wizards think."

"You seem overly passionate about this, Henri." Minerva noted. "I supposed that, like myself, you are too young to remember much of the Muggle War."

He sighed. "I am, for myself, Minerva, but one thing is burned into my memory. You do not, perhaps, know that Maman is not my birth mother, but Papas' second wife? My real mother committed herself to work with the Resistance during the Occupation. She was discreet in the use of her magic, she was a skilled witch. But her skills did not save her when she was captured, tortured and killed by the Gestapo. Papa was forced to hide us until the Liberation."

He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them and spoke more calmly. "As to your suspicions, Minerva, I will of course report them to my superiors, anonymously if you wish. But I must tell you that without absolute proof, there is little we can do. Our relationship with the Surete is a prickly one at best, and they would not take well to us 'interfering' in any investigations they may be conducting."

"Of course." Minerva said. "Our own Auror Department faces the same issues dealing with the CID at home. I would wish my name to be kept out of matters for now, but the name of the rogue wizard I believe to be behind this is Tom Riddle, if that is any help."

"We have our contacts." Henri allowed. "I will discover what I may. Where can I find you?"

She gave him her hotel and room number, and a promise to come for dinner before she left Monaco. They finished their coffee and parted. Minerva headed for the park where she was to meet Mr Kuryakin.

Minerva had been walking through the park for perhaps five minutes when the blond Russian suddenly appeared at her elbow.

"Good morning, Professor." He said urbanely. "Was your meeting a success?"

"It was much as I expected." She replied, taking his proffered arm. "You should call me Miss McGonagall, or Minerva if you prefer. 'Professor' is not a title commonly used among muggle women."

"Not yet, at any rate." He noted. "Perhaps soon. In the meantime, call me Illya. Did you find anything useful?"

"I would prefer to talk about that when we are all together." She told him. "Where are the others?"

Illya shrugged. "Napoleon is seeing the Chief of the Surete here -he is more practised in diplomacy than I am. Commander Bond is reporting to his Head of Station and seeing what they may have. Mr Templar is seeking out friends in low places, I believe."

"He does seem the type." Minerva allowed. "Something of a rogue, despite his _nom de guerre_. And what has been your task this morning, Illya?"

"To ensure that a certain witch was not being followed from her hotel to a cafe, and from there to a park." He informed her with a smile. "Forgive me, Minerva, but it seemed unlikely to us that you have been trained to spot and shake a tail, as we say."

"The fact that I was unaware of your presence, Illya, shows that I would be equally unaware of anyone following me with hostile intent. Far from being offended, I am grateful for your consideration. That said, I do wonder why you thought it possible that I would be followed?"

"We were all seen in that incident, last night, and some at least of the attackers escaped." Illya pointed out. "It is likely, indeed probable, that our descriptions are already in the hands of this Riddle. If he has the usual level of contacts, it would not be difficult for him to find out where each of us is staying, and arrange to have us shadowed.

"So far, it would seem, he has not."

It occurred to Minerva that a wizard as powerful as Riddle was deemed to be would not rely on such a mundane method of observation, but she did not share this with Illya.

"So tell me," she said, "this UNCLE you and Mr Solo work for. I take is he is not your fathers' brother? It strikes me as unlikely that you and Mr Solo are so closely related!"

"Napoleon is, of course, adopted." Illya replied glibly. "But no, UNCLE stands for United Network Command for Law Enforcement. We are an international police force, dealing with criminals and criminal organisations whose reach crosses national borders. Unlike Interpol, which is merely a network for sharing information and intelligence, UNCLE takes direct action with its own agents."

"Ah." Minerva said. "Excuse my ignorance of muggle matters, but in what way does your job differ from that of Commander Bond?"

"Put simply," Illya told her, "Bond works solely for the British government, though MI6 may cooperate with the CIA or other espionage agencies from time to time. UNCLE works for no specific government, but directly under the United Nations Organisation. Also, UNCLE does not become involved with politics, generally speaking. That aspect of international enforcement is in the hands of another organisation called Nemesis. Though there is always some overlap, of course.

"You don't have anything of this kind in your world, Minerva?"

She shook her head. "No, hardly at all. Oh, we have our criminals, of course. Theft, murder, fraud and so forth are not uncommon among wizards. But also, they are difficult to hide and easy to guard against. Our main concerns are maintaining the secrecy of our world from the majority of muggles, and dealing with wizards who dabble too far into the Dark Arts.

"We have no police force or army as such. Each Ministry of Magic has an Auror Department, whose main responsibility is the capture or elimination of Dark wizards. There are also departments covering the misuse of muggle artefacts and the control of magical creatures. If more complex matters arise, a Minister of Magic can appoint one or more Inquisitors -wizards or witches of proven skill and integrity -to look into the business.

"The only international body we have is called the White Council – I dare say you have heard of them at UNCLE – who only act to coordinate the various national Ministries in times of global crisis."

"And the Sorceror Supreme?" Illya asked. "We do have extensive files, Minerva."

She chuckled. "The Sorceror Supreme answers to no Council or Ministry, Illya. Their role is to defend this world or Realm or dimension -call it what you will – against incursions from Outside. The current holder of that title is known only as the Ancient One, and he lives in the Himalayas.

"But now, if we have interrogated each other sufficiently, I suggest that lunch is in order!"

Along the Grande Corniche, one can easily drive the fourteen miles to Nice from Monte Carlo within half an hour. Simon Templar, in a hired Porsche 911, made the trip in just under five minutes. Not that he was in a hurry -that was the way he usually drove. His destination was a small cafe called _Les Pecheurs_. Appropriate, given that he was on a fishing expedition.

His contacts in the Monte Carlo underworld had been less forthcoming than he had hoped. It was unusual -everyone knew The Saint, and knew better than to give him trouble. But there had been an undoubted atmosphere there. People -tough, cynical, ruthless people – were scared, badly. Some of them had, he found, shut up shop and left, or simply disappeared. Disturbing, and underneath his usual suave manner, Simon was worried. Not that he had too much sympathy for the ungodly, but there were degrees of unpleasantness, and to replace simple criminality with outright evil was no improvement. Like anyone who had dealt with the Nazis, Simon knew what evil looked like, and understood the necessity of removing it. But with little help to be found in Monte Carlo, he had come here, to speak with people who were further away from the centre, but who nonetheless were likely to have information.

The English abroad -and Simon himself was an Englishman -are creatures of habit. Far more so than those who remain at home. It was four in the afternoon, and as Simon expected, the person he was looking for was taking tea at an outside table. A small, wiry, dapper man a little older than Simon himself. Obviously and unrepentantly English from the sharply-creased flannels to the neatly-tied silk cravat. The face was older than when Simon had last seen it -streaked with blood and dirt as he helped the man onto the plane – but the blue eyes were still watchful, even if they had lost the bitterness and anger that was in them back then. They fixed on Simon as he approached the table, and a flicker of recognition passed across them.

"Mr Devon?" Simon asked.

Devon rose to his feet and put out a hand. "Simon Templar, as I live and breathe!" He said heartily. "You were barely more than a lad when I saw you last, now here you are, a grown man! Sit down, have some tea. It's the good stuff, Manouche gets it specially for me, from Fortnum and Mason."

They sat. Devon signalled the pretty waitress with a wink, and indicated he needed more tea and another cup and saucer in fast and fluent French.

"I'm pleased you remember me." Simon remarked. "We only met the once, even if it was in extraordinary circumstances."

Devon grinned. "They don't call me 'the Elephant' for nothing!" He tapped the side of his head. "What goes in, stays in, and I'm not quite senile, yet. Here comes our tea, and our hostess herself to join us. Manouche, you remember Simon Templar?"

Manouche Roget – the Leopard to those who knew – was a poised, attractive woman. Simon hardly recognised her as the shrunken, ragged figure, half in shock, half delirious with grief, that the giant Dum-Dum Dugan had carried tenderly out of a stinking dungeon outside Paris so long ago. Then, she had been a victim of Gestapo torture, and had just seen her husband murdered in front of her. Claude Roget -the Wolf – had died never knowing that Manouche carried their child.

Simon had been a young soldier, then. Recruited as an alternative to jail and pulled into the SOE because of his criminal skills, he had found himself assigned as liaison, along with a laconic Canadian Sergeant named Logan, to an elite American commando group for a special mission. Their task was to rescue a Resistance group - known as the Zoo Gang for their animal codenames – from the Gestapo. The mission had been successful, but too late for the Wolf.

Now Manouche set down the tray and greeted Simon with a kiss on each cheek. "Of course, I remember!" She declared. "I may not have your memory, Thomas, but the faces of our saviours are etched into my mind!"

She sat down and began to pour tea. "So tell me, Simon, do you see anyone else from the old days?"

He shrugged. "Not often. We all took different paths. Nick Fury works for some new intelligence agency in the US now. Dugan, Pinkerton, Jones and Koenig are still with him, I believe. They invited me to join, but I had other things to do."

"We're aware of that, Simon." Devon said easily. "We keep our ears to the ground, and when we heard of a Robin Hood character who called himself The Saint, it wasn't hard to put two and two together."

"What of the Canadian, Logan?" Manouche asked. "I was...distracted...at the time, but I recall him as a frightening man."

Simon couldn't disagree. There had been something spooky, almost supernatural, about the stocky Canadian.

"He seems to have dropped out of sight." He told her. "I've not heard of him for years, but I'm not in contact with too many official sources.

"Do you all still keep in touch?"

"But of course!" Manouche said. "Alec and Steven – the Tiger and the Fox – both went home after the War, but we write always, and they come here for holidays when they can. It is hard to let go, you know?"

"You went through a lot together." Simon allowed. "I was too young, and never in the same place long enough, to develop that kind of bond with anyone."

"So, young Simon, what brings you to Nice?" Devon asked. "Apart from visiting old comrades, that is?"

The man they called the Elephant was nobodys' fool, Simon knew. The fact that he and his friends had deduced what had become of the young soldier of twenty years ago – on minimal evidence – showed that the Zoo Gang were as formidable as they had ever been. Best to be straight.

"I find myself in need of information." He admitted. "My usual sources in Monte Carlo have dried up, and I need to find out why. Something bad is going on, and I knew you would still have your ears to the ground, as you say."

Devon nodded. "We do. There are still some old friends and foes about. Friends sometimes need help, foes need to be dealt with. We keep eyes and ears open for both, so we come by a lot of information."

"And Thomas, of course, remembers all of it!" Manouche said with affectionate pride.

"Just now," Devon mused, "odd things are happening. People are vanishing, or fleeing. There is talk of a new force emerging in what the books call 'the underworld'. Waters are being muddied. It's worrying more than the police, Simon. I have a contact, a man named Eli David, who works for the Mossad – Israeli Intelligence. One of their priorities is still hunting down Nazis, and he and I exchange rumours and information. Eli is concerned about this new development, he thinks it might be political..."

"Hush!" Hissed Manouche, then rose to her feet to greet the tall young man who had come up. "Georges, _cheri_! What a surprise! Are you off duty today?

"Simon, this is my son Georges, who is an Inspector in the Surete here. Georges, this is an old comrade from the War..."

"I know who he is, _maman_," the young policeman interrupted, "though I did not know you were acquainted with him, and no, I am not off duty."

"Then it is nice of you to take a moment to visit." Manouche told him. "Will you have some tea? We were enjoying a cup with some talk of the old days."

"Ah! Enjoying!" Georges swept a look around the table and Simon realised that, given time, he would be every bit as formidable as his parents. "There is an old English proverb which says that anything I enjoy is illegal, immoral, or makes me fat. I have no cause to worry, _maman_, about your morals or your weight. But when one of my officers tells me that you are happily taking tea with the notorious Simon Templar, I become concerned. I was not aware that he was a wartime comrade, of course."

"I assure you," Simon told him, "I have no nefarious intentions here."

"And I accept that." Georges replied. "You must understand, _monsieur_ Templar, that the reputation of my parents affords me some privileges. There are many among the police community who recall them with respect, and for their sake, are inclined to help me. You will be familiar with Colonel Latignant and Chief Inspector Teal?"

Both of these were senior police officers with whom Simon had established not-unfriendly relationships. Both would willingly have arrested him, had they ever been able to get enough evidence, but both had also been glad to accept his somewhat unorthodox assistance on occasion. At his nod, Georges continued.

"Both of these gentlemen have informed me that while Simon Templar is undoubtedly a criminal, he is nonetheless a man of honour and principle.

"Now, I find myself faced with a problem. The criminal fraternity in my jurisdiction seem to be under siege from a more than usually ruthless group. We have as yet been unable to discover much about this gang. So I, as is my habit when troubled, have gone for a stroll to clear my head. What, then, more natural than that I should stop by my mothers' cafe to see her?" He placed a manila folder on the table in front of him. "And should I happen to be carrying some notes on the case that concerns me so, what is surprising if, in my distracted state, I should accidentally leave them upon the table? I am sure that, in a few days, my mother will duly return them with a scolding for her careless son!

"And now I must return to my office. It has been a pleasure, Mr Templar. Uncle Thomas, _maman_."

As they watched him go, Devon remarked. "He's his father all over again, Manouche!"

"Not quite." There was both pride and sorrow in the Leopards' eyes as she watched her son walk away. "Claude experienced things that I pray Georges will never have to. They changed him – not so much that I could no longer love him. I would hope never to see such changes in my son, for it would mean that, after all our sacrifice, we failed.

"But now, Simon, pleasant as this has been, I have no doubt there is much for you to do. We will see you again, soon, yes?"

Simon promised they would, and left.


	3. Episode 3

**The Dark Mark Affair**

_**Authors' Note:**__ The practice of 'fagging' referred to by Commander Bond was almost universal in English boarding schools until the 1970s-80s. It was a system whereby older students were given authority over, and responsibility for, younger ones. The younger boys (fags) would run errands and perform domestic tasks for the older ones, who in turn were expected to mentor them and see to their welfare. The idea was to teach the values of service and responsibility within a progressive framework were the fags would eventually have fags of their own. Naturally, the system was subject to more than a little abuse before it surrendered to social changes and was abandoned. I am aware that the term 'fag' carries a different meaning in the Colonies, so thought best to explain it here._

Episode Three: Dark Alleys and Dirty Deeds

Dinner quite surpassed Minerva's expectations. Bond had chosen the restaurant, and had held a quiet conversation with the jovial _maitre d'hotel_ which had resulted in them being given a table with an excellent view of the harbour. Food and drink appeared without any need to order, and each exquisite dish was inspected by the eagle-eyed British spy before he allowed anyone to taste it.

"You're very particular, Commander." Minerva noted.

"Call me James." He told her. "And yes I am. A sign of the confirmed bachelor, I suppose. There are two kinds of bachelor, you know. The first are the husbands-in-waiting, who live in moderate to severe disarray while they look for a woman to take them in hand. Then there are those like me, who discover early in life that they like things just so, and dread the idea that some woman will come into their lives and change everything.

"I'm fussy about everything, from the brand of cigarettes I smoke to the cut of my suits. It's led me into trouble before now. Once, at Eton, I gave my fag very specific instructions as to how to make my evening cocoa, even to the way it was to be stirred. The boy told me quite sharply that if I was that picky, I could make my rotten cocoa myself. That, of course, necessitated taking him onto the grounds to teach him a lesson." Bond gave a rare, rueful, grin. "It was a good job some of my friends had come to see the sport, because they had to carry me back to the dorm on an improvised stretcher!"

Simon and Minerva both laughed, but Illya raised an eyebrow and Napoleon gave a low whistle, before asking: "Who was this boy, then?"

"His name, as I recall, was Steed." Bond replied. "John Steed. And before anyone asks, he never fagged again and was _Victor Ludorum_ in his year."

The talk passed to other matters. The information gathered was beginning to show a pattern. The Brotherhood of the Dark Mark was clearly moving in on small, local organisations. They were taking over protection rackets, loan-sharking, drug-trafficking, prostitution and illegal gambling.

"Nothing major." Solo summed up. "Stuff the big boys don't bother with, as a rule. No one business earns big, but when you put it all together, it comes to quite a bit of cash.

"They are reaching out from Monaco, little by little, but they keep getting stopped. Marseilles, for instance, is pretty much run by the Corsicans, and they sent Riddles' people packing. How I don't know. Same thing happened in Italy -the Mafia dons all but ignored them.

"As to the Triads, I don't know. The Chinese keep themselves very much to themselves."

"My people know about that." Bond noted. "The Chinese Communists regard the Triads as political subversives, but they know we think of them as criminals. So they keep feeding us intel in the hope that we'll put the Triads out of business."

"And you don't pass this intel along to UNCLE?" Illya asked.

"Not all of it." Bond admitted. "For the simple reason that the Triads _are _political subversives. Most of them were set up long ago, in the wake of a change of dynasty, with the avowed intention of restoring the overthrown line to the Imperial throne. Their criminal activities are there to accumulate wealth which they use to finance anti-government movements in China – something we're quite happy to allow them to continue doing.

"But the Triads themselves are under the protection of a larger, more shadowy organisation called the Si Fan. That is a sleeping giant even this Riddle character doesn't want to wake, apparently."

"I'll say one thing about this Dark Mark." Simon noted. "It's not like other organised crime gangs. Nearly all of those centre around specific parts of the world and extended family ties. Even the American crime families are just that, families who share either blood ties or who all come from the same part of the Old Country. The Brotherhood seems to be a rag, tag and bobtail of petty criminals, pulled together by this Riddle."

"Which may explain why the Brotherhood has not been able to overcome the larger organisations." Minerva noted.

"How does that work?" Napoleon asked.

Minerva shrugged. "I admit to knowing no more about muggle criminality than you have all just told me, gentlemen. But I do know my world. There are not many wizards, by comparison with muggles, you must understand. Nevertheless, any sufficiently old and extended muggle family is likely to have produced some muggle-born wizards over the years. Not to mention those who are blood-related to wizard families. Also, marriages between muggles and wizards or witches are not uncommon, and the children produced are, for the most part, wizards or witches themselves.

"If these people are as clannish as you say they are, Simon, then it is unlikely that any wizard members will break ties with their families, even if that were encouraged, which it is not. There have always been a certain percentage of wizards who, having completed their magical education, return wholly or partly to the muggle world. Often this is to work in the family business. If that business was criminal, we would not necessarily be aware of the fact. As long as nobody is blatant in their use of magic, the wizard authorities would have no cause to investigate or intervene."

"So you're saying," Illya mused, "that organisations like the Mafia are likely to have wizards among their members?"

"That is more probable than likely." Minerva allowed. "As to the Si Fan, that is beyond a doubt. Their leader, Dr Fu Manchu, though not a wizard, is an alchemist of note and has been known to actively recruit wizards throughout the East."

"Well," Napoleon said, "frightening as that may be on one level, it does mean that there are limits to what this Riddle can do, even in the underworld."

The room was candle-lit, furnished with a kind of austere luxury. Above the fireplace a coat of arms was displayed, and several suits of armour and trophies of arms decorated the walls, giving the whole a medieval atmosphere. In an elaborately-carved wooden chair at the head of the long, polished table sat a tall man robed in green and silver. He was thin and pale, with the air of a driven ascetic. His face, though handsome, seemed immobile, masklike, even when framed with the long dark hair. Out of it his eyes gleamed redly, the only sign of life in the entire visage.

On his right sat a contrasting figure. Under the fashionable suit, this mans' body was compact and wiry, vibrating with energy. He was olive-skinned, with piercing dark eyes, a thick moustache and thinning hair, both jet-black, and an ugly scar which pulled down the corner of his left eye and puckered the cheek beneath it. Both spoke in rapid, fluent French.

"_Oui, Maitre,_" The smaller one was saying. "we have found information on almost all of the meddlers."

"Almost?" The man addressed as 'Master' had a chilling, tenor voice with an odd emphasis on the sibilants -as if a snake were to speak.

His informant shrugged. "With some, it is easier than others. Simon Templar, the Saint, is well-known here and in many places. He is no agent of the law, he goes his own way, but it is dangerous to cross him. Solo and Kuryakin -the UNCLE agents – have also a reputation; efficient, professional and ruthless. UNCLE is not to be taken lightly. The other Englishman, this Commander Bond, is more enigmatic. He has at various times been called a civil servant, a military advisor and a businessman. His war record is exemplary, but parts of it are missing. He is, we think, a spy.

"But the woman, this Minerva McGonagall, she is a mystery. The daughter of a village priest in Scotland, and a teacher by profession. This is all we can find. We do not even know how she came to Monaco!"

The robed man laughed shrilly. "Then you are fortunate, Dubois, that I still have contacts at home! Minerva McGonagall is a teacher at my old school in Britain. If she holds that position under Albus Dumbledore, she will be a witch of considerable skill and power. A fact I will use to my advantage, and her undoing.

"For now, Dubois, show my guests in and go about your business."

Dubois inclined his head, then rose and escorted two people into the room before leaving. A man and a woman. The woman was in her thirties, tall and full-figured, with a pretty, sensual face and a mass of chestnut curls. The man beside her was also tall, and powerfully-built. Perhaps ten years older than her, he had a handsome face, though marked by experience, and thick silver-white hair.

The woman spoke first, in a husky contralto. "Tom Marvolo Riddle, as I live and breathe!" Her English was flawless, with only a touch of an Eastern European accent. "It's been a while. What are you up to now?"

"I am 'up to' nothing." Riddle told her coolly. "Nothing except securing the future of our world. But what of you? I never thought I would see Magda Maximoff, of the Szgany Maximoff, married to a muggle. Though it is like you to flaunt him in front of me."

"You speak as one with the right to command." Magda told him. "Save that tone for your minions, Tom. The ones that call you by that silly title – Lord Voldemort, is it? I am Magda Lensherr now, and I warn you not to take my husband lightly – he is no ordinary muggle."

Riddle snorted, and gestured them impatiently to seats. "If you say so, Magda. But I did not ask you here to discuss your poor choice of husband. I wish to speak to you of your cousin."

"Which cousin would this be?" Magda asked wryly. "I am Szgany. I have more cousins than I can conveniently count."

"Only one." Riddle informed her. "The son of the aunt for whom you are named. Viktor.

"As King of Latveria, and a wizard of repute, he has both the duty and the power to help the cause significantly. I wrote to remind him of this. The reply I received was arrogant to the point of insult. The fool went so far as to offer me a position under him 'until I prove my worth'. I, the Heir of Slytherin!" Riddles' eyes gleamed a fiercer red for a moment, then he calmed himself.

"Naturally, this defiance cannot go unpunished, but I am reluctant to kill a man who could be of great use to me. So I ask you, Magda, to use whatever influence you and your family might have to persuade this little king to place himself at my service. He must, of course, pay for his arrogance, but that can be dealt with in due course. I would rather have his service than be forced to kill him for his impudence."

Lensherr gave a short bark of laughter. "If you're thinking of going up against Doom, my friend, you're a bigger fool than the one Magda described to me!" His English was also fluent, but tinged with American.

With an obvious effort, Riddle ignored the muggle, keeping his enquiring gaze fixed on Magda, who shrugged.

"Erik is right, Tom. I attended Durmstrang with Viktor -we were friends, in so far as anyone could be friends with him. He is without a doubt the most brilliant man I have ever met. Not only is he a supremely skilled wizard, especially in the Dark Arts, but he has also mastered muggle science. He commands the complete loyalty of his people in Latveria -including the wizards. I know your reputation, Tom, but I do urge you to leave Viktor alone. If you annoy him, he will crush you."

"That remains to be seen." Riddle growled. "But there is another reason I asked you here, Magda. You are a Pureblood witch of known power and skill. It is time for you to put aside your flirtation with the muggle world and join me in the crusade for purity!"

It was Erik who answered, pulling back his sleeve to show Riddle the number crudely tattooed on his inner arm.

"I have already survived one madmans' quest for racial purity, Herr Riddle. Neither I nor my wife will join another. Your demand is declined. We will leave now."

"Magda will join, or you both die!" Riddle howled. He whipped out his wand and gestured. Two suits of armour promptly stepped away from the wall and advanced on the couple. Magda produced her own wand and cast a reductor hex which blew one apart. Erik raised his hand and the other suit stopped in its tracks, then began to crumple in on itself, a process that continued until there was nothing but a cube of steel floating at chest height. At Eriks' gesture, the cube flew across the room to settle softly on the table in front of Riddle.

Erik rose to his feet. "You are not the only one to have another name, my Lord Voldemort." He announced. "I am Erik Lensherr, but to some I am known as Magneto, master of magnetism. Learn to fear that name!"

Before the astonished wizard could react, Magda stepped to Eriks' side and took his hand. The couple disapparated with a boom, leaving Riddle with more questions than answers.

They had gone on to a casino. "It's important," Bond had said, "to be seen doing the things holidaymakers in Monte Carlo do. Spies, UNCLE agents and international racketeers are always watched, by lots of people."

There was a little more to it than that, Minerva guessed, as her new friends had promptly dispersed among the tables. Simon had bought into a poker game, and had come away with a small profit. Bond, once again playing baccarat with the impassivity of a professional gambler, had made a substantial sum.

Minerva herself had been taught to play bridge and canasta by her parents, but in her school days had developed a liking for pontoon, a simple game she'd been introduced to by a muggle-born classmate. The version played here was called blackjack, and she'd been playing it the night she met Simon and the others. For a witch of her abilities, it was simple enough to 'see' what cards were coming up and to ensure that she won and lost just enough to balance out. But she was aware of Henris' warning that witches and wizards worked undercover in the large casinos to prevent this kind of thing. So she had joined Illya and Napoleon at a roulette table, following Illyas' cautious style of play, and managed to come away a hundred francs up on the evening.

Now they were escorting her back to her hotel, a precaution she felt was unnecessary, but accepted if only for a little more time with these four Alpha males. Despite occasional rumours to the contrary, Minerva was fond of male company, and to be the only woman in this exceptional group was a privilege not to be squandered.

At some point, they turned off the main road into a rather dingy maze of back alleys.

"Good place to either show up or shake any company we might have acquired." Illya explained.

At that point, something changed. Despite being engaged in a somewhat flirtatious conversation with Simon, on whose arm she was, Minerva noticed. Bond and Napoleon had moved slightly ahead, and were scanning every nook and cranny. Illya had fallen a little behind, and kept glancing to the rear.

In front, Napoleon said quietly to Bond: "So, what is it with Minerva?"

"I'm not sure what you mean." Bond said slowly.

"Aw c'mon, James!" Napoleon grinned at him. "I know your reputation. Mine's the same. She's an attractive lady, and you haven't made a move. Not like you, my friend."

"You haven't made a move, either." Bond pointed out.

Napoleon shrugged. "Too clever for me, more Illyas' type. But that doesn't stop you. And that story you told tonight. Not like James Bond to tell a story against himself. Not that I don't believe it, I know John Steed and he's a dangerous guy. But for you to pull that out of the hat, in front of a pretty woman?"

Bond sighed. "Women are a problem for me, Napoleon. So many of them want to get into your life and change who you are. I take them to bed, then I move on. But some of them can see that in me, and I know there's no point in even starting anything. Minerva's a bit like that. But also, she's a woman I can trust – and that's rare. She reminds me of the Matron at my prep school. Nobody's fool, not safe to cross, but she'll take good care of you.

"Is it me, or is it getting cold?"

Minerva saw them, of course, though none of the others could. Slithering out of the shadows. Towering figures in ragged robes, with slick grey skin, eyeless faces and gaping maws. Dementors, arguably the filthiest manifestation of Dark magic known. These creatures fed on misery, pulling the darkest, cruellest memories from their victims' minds and relishing the pain they caused. There were three of them, and for some reason, they all moved in on James.

Several things went through Minerva's head, even as she was reaching for her wand. She knew that, despite their appearance, Dementors were physical beings. It was possible that muggle weapons could damage or injure them. But muggles cannot see Dementors to attack them. The only spell that could repulse a Dementor was the Patronus Charm, but a spell that powerful would be bound to bring Aurors on the run. Using magic in front of muggles would get Minerva arrested and her friends' memories would be wiped. But any moment now, either James or Napoleon might fall victim to the Dementors' Kiss, and lose their soul.

Then things changed, inexplicably. James was looking around, confused and puzzled, Napoleon was staring at him. The three Dementors, however, were pulling back from James with high, thin shrieks, fleshless hands held before their faces, crowding against the grubby walls of the alley. Whatever was happening, it was chance for Minerva.

"It's magic!" She didn't shout, but her tone of authority was unmistakable. "You can't do anything! Get out of here and let me handle it. I'll meet you back at the hotel. Go!"

They were trained, these men. They obeyed her at once, out of instinct. They might question that later, castigate themselves, but for now, they did as they were told. Only Simon glanced back, a question on his face.

"Go." She told him. "You'd only be in my way, this isn't a gunfight or a brawl, Simon."

Then it was just her and the recovering Dementors. Minerva didn't waste a second, raising her wand and summoning her Patronus. It was, of course, a cat, but a cat of no ordinary size. It loped toward the Dementors, then stopped, crouching for a spring, tail lashing, hissing and snarling. Already shaken, the Dementors made no attempt to resist. They fled back into the shadows, their cries fading quickly.

For a moment, Minerva relaxed, then a hissing tenor behind her said: "You clever little bitch!" She spun, raising her wand again. She had a fleeting impression of a tall man in Slytherin robes, face like a mask and mad red eyes. Instinctively, she loosed a Stun Hex just as he cast a Killing Curse. Minerva flung herself to the side as, unbelievably, the two curses collided.

There was a burst of vivid red-green light that blinded her and knocked her to the ground. She couldn't move, her body felt like stone, and she was cold, so cold. She heard the booming of multiple Apparations, shouts, swearing, another boom. She fell out of her body into the dark.

_Minerva was standing in the Great Hall of Hogwarts, near the staff table. It was empty except for Albus Dumbledore, who sat in his usual place. He smiled at her and lifted the cover from the dish in front of him. On the plate was a tiny live creature – a hundred-headed serpent. Dumbledore looked at it for a moment, then looked at Minerva again:_

"_Do you know who I am?" He asked. Then he was gone._

_She turned to find the Doctor standing beside her. He gave that slightly-manic grin of his and pointed across the Hall. A single figure was seated at the Gryffindor table. A boy in school robes, perhaps eleven, undersized, pale and skinny. Then he looked at her. His face was also pale and thin, and there was a scar on his forehead, but the vivid green eyes burned with joy, compassion and intelligence. He solemnly put a finger to his lips for a moment, then gave her a dazzling grin._

_Minerva felt the Doctor's hand on her shoulder. "Time to go." He told her. She put her hand over his and squeezed it, then made for the doors._

_The tables were gone, but another figure stood in the empty space. She remembered a picture she'd seen, years ago in Rome, of an alien called a Vorlon. This being was similar, similar enough to be of the same race, but the elaborate costume was different, coloured in shades of brown and green. She stopped in front of it._

"_Who are you?" She asked._

"_Ask yourself that question." The flat tone was accompanied by a whispering sussuration, as of other voices whispering the same thing in different tongues. "Then you will know my answer."_

_Minerva tried again: "What are you doing here?"_

_As the Vorlon turned away, it replied: "We have always been here."_

_Knowing that was all she could expect, Minerva approached the door, only to be met by another tall, cloaked figure. Not a Dementor, the robe was unripped, and the face peering out of the hood was a simple skull, with pinpoints of blue light in the eye-sockets._

"_Is it time?" She asked._

"_NOT YET._" _Death replied kindly. "NOT FOR A LONG TIME YET, MINERVA. I JUST CAME ALONG SO YOU WOULDN'T WORRY."_

_He opened the door and gestured her through politely. Outside, she was back in the alley, where she tripped over nothing and tumbled back into her body._

She opened her eyes again to see the anxious face of Henri Clerval looking down at her. There were worse things to wake up to, she supposed.

"Minerva?" He asked in English. "Are you well?"

"I am fine, _mon vieux_," she replied in French, "a little shaken, that's all."

He helped her to her feet. "_Mon Dieu!_" He said. "I thought we had lost you!"

"How did you get here?" She wanted to know.

Henri shrugged. "This is a city where people gamble, Minerva. They go from the heights of joy to the depths of despair. Such places draw wild Dementors as carrion draws vultures, so we keep a watch for them. We knew there were some in these alleys, and were coming to deal with them when our Detection Spells alerted us to a Patronus Charm."

"That was me." Minerva admitted. "I sensed the filthy things and came to deal with them before they could attack some poor muggle. I drove them off, then I was attacked by a wizard!"

"_Oui._" Henri nodded. "We detected the Killing Curse and a Stun Hex, almost simultaneous. We apparated to the spot at once. You were lying on the ground and another wizard -a tall, dark-haired man - was nearby, staggering as if injured or confused. Even so, he managed to shield himself from all our spells and to flee.

"We thought he had killed you, Minerva!"

"So did I." She allowed. "But it seems my hex hit him just as he unloosed his curse. Must have spoiled his aim, but it came close enough to knock me down and out for a little. If you hadn't arrived when you did, he would undoubtedly have finished the job, Henri. I owe you, my friend."

"_De rien_." He replied with a dismissive gesture. "I was merely in the right place at the right time. Can I take you anywhere?"

"My hotel, please." She told him. "There are people waiting who will become anxious if I do not rejoin them soon."

"Your new muggle friends, yes?" He asked with a smile. "Oh, yes, we know, Minerva. Fortunately, our connections with the muggle governments cut both ways, or you would be in trouble!

"You know, do you not, that these are dangerous men?"

"I'm counting on it!" Minerva smiled herself. _The smile of a she-wolf._ Henri thought.

Shortly after that, the alley was empty. Then it wasn't, as a Disillusionment Charm was released with a crack, and two figures were revealed.

"Well, that was a revelation." Magda noted. "I didn't know your powers could affect spells, Erik."

He shrugged. "Magnetic fields affect many things, my love. Magic seems to follow the laws of physics in some ways, if not in others, and I was able to force those spells to neutralise each other. Fortunate."

"Fortunate that Charles warned us of Toms' intentions, as well." Magda noted. "Tom is a powerful Legilemens, I'm surprised Charles could evade him so easily."

_Please don't speak of me as if I'm not there, Magda._ Charles Xavier chided.

"And I think that answers your question, dear!" Erik chuckled.

Magda grinned ruefully, then frowned. "Something does bother me, though. The Dementors were about to attack that man – the tall one – when something about him frightened them, seemed to hurt them. What, I wonder?"

_What were they trying to do to him?_ Xavier asked. _They were calling up memories, terrible memories._

"That's how they feed." Magda told him. "They draw out your worst memories and feed on the anguish they cause."

_Then that is the explanation._ Xavier replied. _The memories caused no emotional reaction in Commander Bond. He is quite immune to such feelings._

"Really?" Eriks' face was grim. "I wonder if our clever witch realises she is working with a psychopath? Should we stay around, Charles?"

_I think not, Erik. Riddle will expect you to leave, and we do not need to draw attention to ourselves at this time. We have done enough, the rest is up to Professor McGonagall and her formidable friends._

There was a boom, and the alley was empty again.


	4. Episode 4

**The Dark Mark Affair**

Episode Four: In the Catacombs

Minerva had been right, her friends were all, to varying degrees, anxious about her and eager to know what had happened. She explained as much as she felt it was safe for them to know, talking about a Fear spell, rather than trying to explain Dementors to men used to dealing with problems with firearms and fists.

"It's a good job, then," Illya remarked, "that none of us scare easily!"

"Including you, Minerva." Solo pointed out. "You kept your head as well as any of us professionals."

"You forget, Napoleon," Minerva told him, "that as far as magic is concerned, I am as much a professional as anyone here!

"That, however, is a minor point. I have discovered something significant as a result of tonights' encounter.

"As I told you, I was attacked by a wizard - a skilled and powerful one – after you had left. Now, I have never myself seen Tom Riddle, but I have heard descriptions of him, especially from Headmaster Dumbledore. The man who attacked me tonight matched those descriptions. He was also dressed in green and silver -the colours of Slytherin House, the House of which Riddle is a proud member."

"So you think it was Riddle himself came after us?" Napoleon asked.

"After me, to be specific." Minerva answered. "Not to be unkind, gentlemen, but you are muggles. Riddle would not regard you as a threat. Unwise of him, but not entirely surprising.

"Nevertheless, this does reveal something of importance. While I have a certain reputation among those who know me, I am by no means famous in my world. Nor am I an Auror or Inquisitor. For Riddle to come himself to deal with one very ordinary witch indicates to me that he has no wizard confederates here in Monaco!"

"So the people around him are just ordinary thugs?" Simon asked.

"It would appear so." Minerva allowed.

"Thugs are definitely within our reach." Bond stated. "Even if we can't directly confront Riddle, we can break his organisation."

"My thoughts precisely." Minerva agreed. "It has taken him some time to get this far, and the knowledge that muggles are aware of his plans, and can take steps to frustrate them, might well be sufficient to force him back into the wizard world, where we can deal with him."

"So all we have to do," Bond concluded. "is locate his base of operations and shut it down?"

"Effectively." Minerva told him. "I very much doubt that he values his muggle pawns enough to make a stand in their defence. His own skin will be his first and only concern, and wizards are as vulnerable to bullets as muggles are. Besides, I shall be on hand."

They tried to dissuade her, but not very hard. Truth be told, all the men knew they had no hope of succeeding. They hadn't known Minerva McGonagall very long, but they had all gathered that her mind, once made up, was not subject to change.

The next morning was one of enforced idleness, under which they all chafed. Matters were now in the hands of local law enforcement – both wizard and muggle – and Bonds' colleagues at Monte Carlo Station. Fortunately, when they met for lunch, progress had been made.

"It seems the Dark Mark has attracted some attention." Bond reported. "Templars' friend, the Elephant, was correct in that Mossad have been looking into them. So, for that matter, has the KGB. Their methods have more in common with political than purely criminal groups, in that they seem to collect money but not to spend it in the usual ways. In most cases like this, the money is laundered before being used for arms purchases, bribery and so forth. In this case, however, nobody can find where the money goes, and that is worrying them."

"Well, the local _Surete_ have found us one solid lead." Napoleon announced. He passed a photograph around -a man with a heavy moustache and a scarred face. "Meet Jacques Dubois. He started out as black marketeer during the War. That made him a lot of contacts, and after the War he became a kind of 'fixer'. He doesn't, or didn't, belong to any particular gang or syndicate, but he was available for hire to do any kind of job the gangs didn't want their own people to do. He can make wanted people disappear to safety, dispose of inconvenient people discreetly and get you almost any kind of weapon, explosive or specialised equipment, for the right price.

"But just recently, he seems to have become the front man for the Dark Mark. He's the one who comes to 'suggest' you pay protection, who arranges your loan and so forth. He's the go-between for messages to 'the Master', as the leader – presumably Riddle – calls himself.

"They've had him followed, and he seems to be based in a little house in the old quarter of the town. It's real run-down, but people – suspicious people – come and go at all hours of the day and night. Sometimes more than can fit into the building. There are never any lights, either. The cops think he goes on somewhere else, but there's only the one entrance and no cellar, so they don't know how he does it."

"Just because they don't know there's a cellar, doesn't mean there isn't one." Bond pointed out. "I think we've all had our share of secret tunnels and hidden passages!"

"True," Illya allowed, "but I for one don't fancy bursting into somewhere and not knowing what I'm going to find!"

"Whatever it is, I doubt it will be tunnels or passages." Minerva said decisively. "Wizards have numerous ways of getting from place to place quickly and efficiently. Discounting Apparation, which can only be done by a wizard, there is the Floo network and there are Portkeys. Both of these, if properly set up beforehand, are quite usable by muggles. My own family, among other ostensibly or partially muggle families, had the house connected to the Floo, so that my mother, brothers and I could more easily visit wizard friends. Once persuaded, my muggle father now uses it with some...floo-ency."

Everybody groaned and Minerva permitted herself a smile. "Please remember, gentlemen, I am a schoolteacher. Among youngsters, the pun is still considered the highest form of humour, and I have heard some truly excruciating examples in my time."

"Use those on the bad guys," Napoleon opined, "and we won't need to fire a shot!"

The twilight was slowly fading to darkness as the group gathered in the ramshackle old house Monaco Station had commandeered, across the road from the target house. The observers posted in the front bedroom had reported nothing but the usual comings and goings, confirming that, thus far, the Dark Mark did not know their hideout had been compromised.

Bond led them into the back kitchen, where a tall man with a shock of untidy grey hair and piercing eyes awaited them.

"Come for the roulette, Q?" Bond asked by way of greeting.

"If only I had the time, 007!" Q replied testily. "As it is, I am once again obliged to provide you with equipment in the ever-fading hope that you will bring at least some of it back intact!" He turned to the others. "I need hardly say this to Agents Solo and Kuryakin, but I must point out to Professor McGonagall and Mr Templar that anything you see, hear or are indeed supplied with must be returned when finished with and its capabilities discussed with no-one.

"Now, pay attention!"

He turned to the table behind him, which was stacked with equipment, and began to pass out garments which looked like sleeveless black jerkins.

"Latest issue Type 5A bulletproof vest." Q explained. "Made from a new material called Kevlar, which is stronger for its weight than steel. Reinforced in the back and chest with plates of high-impact ceramic. Gives good protection against knives and small to medium-calibre weapons, but not heavy-calibre. Try not to get too many holes in them."

Minerva got herself into the garment, which was a little rigid, but no heavier than formal robes. Like the rest of them, she was already wearing a black crew-neck sweater, stout black trousers and sturdy, rubber-soled boots. Bond had supplied the gear earlier in the day, and she did wonder how he had got her size exactly right – better not to ask, she supposed. But she had trouble with the unfamiliar fastenings down the side of the armour. Broad strips of fabric that seemed to want to stick together. Without comment or undue fuss, Simon assisted her until she was comfortable.

Q then passed around watches. "Standard field issue chronometer, set to local time but displaying GMT in the smaller dial." He told them. "Shockproof and waterproof to a depth of a hundred feet, self-winding. Stopwatch function. Press the lower button to back-light the dial. Turn the centre button anti-clockwise and pull to extend a high-tensile nylon garrotte.

"Miniature two-way radios, range five miles maximum, possibly less in built-up areas or where there are obstructions. Low-light goggles which should allow you to function in anything short of total blackout.

"That is all I can offer you, Professor, as I am given to understand you are wholly unfamiliar with, er, _muggle_ weaponry. For you gentlemen, a range of sub-machine guns and compact shotguns are available to supplement your pistols. I also have some smoke and flash grenades."

Watching the men arm themselves, Minerva couldn't help comparing them with the Doctor, who faced anything and everything with a grin, voluble chatter and a sonic screwdriver! Then again, she doubted that her enigmatic TimeLord friend would concern himself with gangsters. _Lucky gangsters. _She mused.

Then it was time to go. There was no ceremony. They crossed the street at a run and Bond crashed his brawny shoulder into the flimsy door, which flew back against the wall. The men went in fast and Minerva followed them.

The inside of the house had been cleared into one big room. There was a table with several chairs round it, as well as some armchairs around the walls. There were also about a dozen men in the room, but the sudden entrance of four heavily-armed strangers had clearly convinced them to abandon any thought of resistance.

Minerva left the disarming and rounding-up chores to the men. She headed to the back of the room. Here there was a massive hearth, obviously newly-added, large enough to hold half-a-dozen people. A bright fire was burning in it, which should have made the room suffocatingly hot on this summer night, but did not. A magical fire, then.

In an armchair next the hearth a thin, pale-faced man was sitting. Minerva bore down on him, wand extended. He clearly knew her for what she was, and cowered back in his chair. Minerva jerked her head in the direction of the hearth. "Is that what I think it is?" She demanded.

The man nodded. "You put a pinch of that powder into the flames..." He was gabbling, and Minerva cut him short.

"I know how to work a Floo, man!" She snapped. "What is the destination?"

"The Sanctum," he told her, "you say 'The Sanctum'."

She eyed him critically. "You're a squib, aren't you?" She asked.

He nodded again. "_Oui, Madame._"

"If I'm any judge, you're also a fool!" She told him. "Now get over there with the others!"

"_Oui, Madame."_ He said again, and hurried off. _It's 'Mademoiselle', _Minerva thought,_ but now isn't the time to be picky about etiquette!_

The gangsters were handed off to agents who were waiting outside. Strict orders had been given that nobody except Minerva and her companions were to enter the house. Minerva gathered the four men together and explained tersely about the Floo.

"As soon as the flames turn green, it will be safe to get in." She instructed. "I have no way of knowing what we will emerge into or even what direction we will be facing, so we should circle and be ready for anything!"

As it turned out, they arrived at a small room which contained only another hearth, a table and a chair. A man was sitting in the chair and as he saw them appear, he tried to rise and reach for the gun which lay on the table. Minervas' Stun hex sent him back down into the chair to slump across the table, out cold.

"Sleeping on the job." Bond remarked.

"You can't get the staff nowadays." Simon pointed out.

"No work ethic." Napoleon lamented.

Illya had his ear pressed to the single door.

"Sounds as if there are a lot of people in there." He told them all. "Just general talk, I don't think they know we're here."

"Then here's what we do..." Bond said.

A few moments later, Napoleon opened the door softly. Before anyone could notice or react, Illya threw in a flash-bang grenade, whose deafening roar and blinding light was enough to disorient anyone unprepared for them.

The room beyond was a large one, filled with tables and chairs. There were maybe twenty men in there, all hardened criminals, all armed, and all sufficiently surprised for Napoleon and Bond to shoot out the lights, plunging the room into near-darkness.

At this point, numbers became meaningless. As the gangsters blundered around, firing at anything they saw or thought they saw, the four men, equipped with low-light goggles and superior weapons, began to systematically clear the room.

Minerva, however, had other business. She had already spotted the door across the room, and now she Apparated to it and slipped through. Dashing down a short corridor, she burst into a room that looked like a baronial dining hall.

There was a single man in the room, who had clearly heard the noises from down the corridor and was expecting something. Minerva never found out what, because she Stunned him instinctively. Pausing for a second to check him, she recognised the scarred, moustached face as Dubois, deemed to be Riddles' lieutenant. She cast _incarcerous_ to keep him out of her hair, then looked around.

Tucked away in a corner of the room was another door. Not large, but sturdy, iron-bound and, Minerva was willing to bet, magically protected. Certainly it was soundproofed, or whoever was in there must have come out to investigate the sounds of conflict. Minerva had neither the time nor the inclination for finesse, so she levelled her wand at the door and barked "_Reducto!_"

The door flew into splinters and Minerva strode through, pointing her wand at the figure behind the desk.

"Kindly remain seated, and keep your hands visible." She said coolly.

The red eyes locked on hers blazed with mad rage for a moment, then were hooded again. The masklike feature approximated a smile.

"I thought I had killed you, Professor." The tenor voice, with its odd sibilance, sent a wash of cold down Minervas' spine.

"Rumours of my death have been somewhat exaggerated." She replied. "I take it I am addressing Mr Tom Riddle?"

The eyes flared again, and again Riddle mastered himself, speaking coldly and evenly. "That was the name of my stupid muggle father." He told her. "I am Lord Voldemort, but that name is not for you to speak. You may address me as 'Master'."

"I call no man master, Mr Riddle." Minerva snapped. "But I did not come here to bandy words. Nor did I come here to fight you. I am under no illusions as to your power and skill, and I am no fool.

"The question is, how much of a fool are you? As we speak, my allies – four highly-trained, heavily-armed and ruthless muggle fighters – are disposing of your muggle pawns. Very shortly, they will come after you. If you have any understanding at all of muggle weapons and the way they fight, you will know that you have very little chance of surviving combat with them. If you have none, then I assure you that they are every bit as deadly, and far less discriminating, than any curse you could cast.

"So your choice is this; surrender to me now, and the wizard authorities will take you back to England for trial, and ultimately to Azkaban. A grim fate, but not the worst."

"And if I choose otherwise?" Riddle asked.

Minerva shrugged. "Then the likelihood is that you will die at the hands of a muggle. If you should survive, they will take you – I have no power to stop them. They will strip you of your wand and take you to one of their secret laboratories, where their scientists will prod you and poke you and cut you open and pry every secret, every scrap of magic from you to turn into muggle weapons they can use against wizards. You will be the author of your own kinds' downfall."

Minerva was absolutely sure that, should her muggle allies arrest Riddle, they would hand him over to the wizard authorities forthwith. She had no compunction, however, in laying this unpleasant fantasy before the madman she faced.

Riddle laughed softly, then said. "There is a third alternative, Minerva. It is my destiny, as the true Heir of Slytherin, to restore the proper, pure glory of our world. The ascendancy of magical blood, the true power of the Dark Arts, returned to their former pre-eminence. I will be the Dark Lord of wizards, the Master of muggles, and those who serve me well will prosper.

"There is a seed of greatness within you, Minerva. Join with me and we shall let it grow, together!"

"It appears," Minerva sighed, "that you are even more of a fool than I imagined. Think, Tom, my allies will be here soon. Place yourself in my hands and you will be safe!"

"ENOUGH!" Riddle screamed. Before Minerva could react, he had produced his wand from nowhere and cast a hex that hurled her back against the wall. Had she not been wearing the muggle armour, she would have been badly injured. As it was, she fell to the floor, winded and dazed.

Riddle rose and came round the desk, pointing his wand at her upturned face.

"I will make sure of you this time!" He hissed.

Then there was a sound at the door. Riddle turned, but before he could bring his wand to bear, Simon Templar was on him.

Whatever other skills the self-styled Dark Lord had mastered, fisticuffs was not one of them. The Saints' iron-hard fist slammed into his midsection, doubling him over. Simon roughly hauled him upright again to deliver a sledgehammer left to Riddles' jaw which spun him round and sent him down.

"Consider yourself under arrest." Simon told the inert form, before turning to Minerva.

"Are you OK?" He asked.

"A little winded, a little bruised, my dignity in tatters, but other than that, yes." Minerva held out a hand, and Simon helped her up. "Your timing could improve, my friend." She told him.

By this time, the others had arrived.

"Just what," Bond asked icily, "did you think you were doing, Minerva?"

"Keeping him talking." She explained. "Had he intervened in the general fracas, his powers would have given the opposition a significant edge. I could not have protected all of you against his magic while trying to defend myself against the muggles. Nor have I the skill or power to duel him directly. My aim was to keep him here, out of the fight, until you were done. Even Riddle would be no match for a witch and four armed muggles. He is not so powerful yet, though what he might become unchecked is another matter.

"It worked, but only just. I had misjudged his degree of mental instability."

The scream was one of pure, insane, rage. They all turned to see Riddle upright and brandishing his wand. The sound of four shots, fired at once, was deafening. Some of them went home, because Minerva saw Riddle stagger, saw blood spurt. Then the man called Voldemort turned on the spot and vanished with a boom!

"Oh, good grief!" Said Minerva, who was occasionally given to strong language. "We'll never find him now. Oh, well, doubtless he will turn up again."

"Not for a while." Illya remarked. "He had a couple of bullets in him. Even a wizard will need time to heal from that, I imagine."

"He's tougher than he looks, though."Simon pointed out. "He recovered from that punch quicker than I thought he would."

"No matter, he is gone." Minerva stated. "I left a man I assume to be Jacques Dubois tied up in the room out there. Did you leave any other survivors."

"About half of them are still alive." Napoleon told her. "Some wounded, some surrendered. Guy called Clerval arrived out of nowhere with some of those Aurors just as we were mopping up. They've got things in hand.

"What will happen to Dubois and the others?"

Minerva shrugged. "They will be treated for any wounds, their memories will be rearranged to forget anything they should not have seen, and they will be handed over to the muggle authorities to deal with as they see fit.

"As for us, gentlemen, we should hand this equipment back to Mr Q. Then I think a nightcap is in order!"

Minerva woke to see Simon, propped on his elbow on the pillow next to hers, looking at her with quizzical blue eyes.

"Good morning to you, Mr Templar!" She greeted him.

"And to you, Professor McGonagall." He responded. "How did you sleep?"

"Like the proverbial log." She replied. "Nothing like a little healthy exercise to help one relax."

Simon chuckled, then sat up and lit two cigarettes. Minerva sat up, too, arranging the pillows behind her before accepting her cigarette. Leaning back, she closed her eyes and exhaled blissfully.

"That was your first time, wasn't it?" Simon asked softly.

"First _and_ second." She agreed. "Was it so obvious?"

He chuckled again. "You were enthusiastic, uninhibited and you are very comfortable in your own skin." He told her, eyeing her body, exposed from the waist up, with more than academic interest. "But none of those things can disguise inexperience. Compensate for it, but not hide it!"

She laughed softly. "You will find me to be a quick study." She assured him.

Privately, Simon thought that this woman could be the study of a lifetime, but not for him, regrettably.

They smoked in comfortable silence for a while, then Simon asked. "Why me? You had four alpha males to choose from, after all!"

"Not really." She mused. "James, for instance, does not really like women. The vapid ones he can treat with contempt and ignore. The bold and competent he will pursue until their surrender to his virility places them beside their weaker sisters. Or he will treat them, as he does me, as being without sex.

"Napoleon does like and admire women, but he is too much the man of the world. He is a sophisticate with a jaded palate, not to be tempted by the innocent. I would bring him nothing he wants.

"Illya and I could talk all day and night about an infinite variety of subjects, but the idea of physical intimacy would never attract either of us. It would be a meeting of minds alone.

"But you, Simon, adore women as they adore you. You are amusing and charming and, possibly because you are not a trained professional like the others, you still have warmth. I am comfortable with you and with the knowledge that you will not take what passes between us a whit more seriously than it deserves to be taken."

They smoked another cigarette. Minerva was thinking of the future. Before the party had broken up last night, it had been made clear to her that, should she ever need the help of any of the men, they would be there. It was also understood that, should they have need of magical help, she would be there to give it. Thus she had made for herself, quite without intention, a small escape hatch into the realm of Adventure. Her everyday life would be made, if only by the possibility of escape, so much more enjoyable. _With the right seasoning, _she thought, _even mutton stew can taste better._

"So what happens now?" Simon asked.

"Now?" She echoed. "Now I am on holiday, Simon. I intend to live in the moment and live every moment. I would like it very much if you would share with me as many of those moments as are possible, Simon, before we go our separate ways with no regrets and the hope of meeting again sometime. Would that be agreeable to you?"

"Very much so." He told her.

"Well in that case," she put out her cigarette and snuggled closer to him, "I believe we have time for another lesson before breakfast!"


End file.
